Paolini, Christopher - Inheritance Trilogy, Book 2 - Eldest (v1.5) (40 page)

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Oromis nodded. “And I will grant it if it is within my power.”

“Then tell me: Why have you remained hidden for all these years? You

were sorely needed, Argetlam.”

“Ah,” said Oromis. “Many sorrows exist in this world, and one of the

greatest is being unable to help those in pain. I could not risk leaving this

sanctuary, for if I had died before one of Galbatorix’s eggs had hatched,

then there would have been no one to pass on our secrets to the new

Rider, and it would have been even harder to defeat Galbatorix.”

“That was your reason?” spat Orik. “Those are the words of a coward!

The eggs might have never hatched.”

Everyone went deathly quiet, except for a faint growl that emanated

from between Glaedr’s teeth. “If you were not my guest here,” said Islan-

zadí, “I would strike you down myself for that insult.”

Oromis spread his hands. “Nay, I am not offended. It is an apt reaction.

Understand, Orik, that Glaedr and I cannot fight. Glaedr has his disabil-

ity, and I,” he touched the side of his head, “I am also maimed. The For-

sworn broke something within me when I was their captive, and while I

can still teach and learn, I can no longer control magic, except for the

smallest of spells. The power escapes me, no matter how much I struggle.

I would be worse than useless in battle, I would be a weakness and a li-

ability, one who could easily be captured and used against you. So I re-

moved myself from Galbatorix’s influence for the good of the many, even

though I yearned to openly oppose him.”

“The Cripple Who Is Whole,” murmured Eragon.

“Forgive me,” said Orik. He appeared stricken.

“It is of no consequence.” Oromis placed a hand on Eragon’s shoulder.

“Islanzadí Dröttning, by your leave?”

“Go,” she said wearily. “Go and be done with you.”

Glaedr crouched low to the ground, and Oromis nimbly climbed up his

leg and into the saddle on his back. “Come, Eragon and Saphira. We have

much to talk about.” The gold dragon leaped off the cliff and circled

overhead, rising on an updraft.

Eragon and Orik solemnly clasped arms. “Bring honor to your clan,” said

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the dwarf.

As Eragon mounted Saphira, he felt as if he were about to embark on a

long journey and that he should say farewell to those who remained be-

hind. Instead, he just looked at Arya and smiled, letting his wonder and

joy show. She half frowned, appearing troubled, but then he was gone,

swept into the sky by the eagerness of Saphira’s flight.

Together the two dragons followed the white cliff northward for sev-

eral miles, accompanied only by the sound of their wings. Saphira flew

abreast of Glaedr. Her enthusiasm boiled over into Eragon’s mind,

heightening his own emotions.

They landed in another clearing situated on the edge of the cliff, just

before the wall of exposed stone crumbled back into the earth. A bare

path led from the precipice to the doorstep of a low hut grown between

the trunks of four trees, one of which straddled a stream that emerged

from the moody depths of the forest. Glaedr would not fit inside; the hut

could have easily sat between his ribs.

“Welcome to my home,” said Oromis as he alighted on the ground with

uncommon ease. “I live here, on the brink of the Crags of Tel’naeír, be-

cause it provides me the opportunity to think and study in peace. My

mind works better away from Ellesméra and the distractions of other

people.”

He disappeared inside the hut, then returned with two stools and flag-

ons of clear, cold water for both himself and Eragon. Eragon sipped his

drink and admired the spacious view of Du Weldenvarden in an attempt

to conceal his awe and nervousness while he waited for the elf to speak.

I’m in the presence of another Rider! Beside him, Saphira crouched with

her eyes fixed on Glaedr, slowly kneading the dirt between her claws.

The gap in their conversation stretched longer and longer. Ten minutes

passed. . half an hour. . then an hour. It reached the point where Eragon

began to measure the elapsed time by the sun’s progress. At first his mind

buzzed with questions and thoughts, but those eventually subsided into

calm acceptance. He enjoyed just observing the day.

Only then did Oromis say, “You have learned the value of patience

well. That is good.”

It took Eragon a moment to find his voice. “You can’t stalk a deer if

you are in a hurry.”

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Oromis lowered his flagon. “True enough. Let me see your hands. I find

that they tell me much about a person.” Eragon removed his gloves and

allowed the elf to grip his wrists with thin, dry fingers. He examined Er-

agon’s calluses, then said, “Correct me if I am wrong. You have wielded a

scythe and plow more often than a sword, though you are accustomed to

a bow.”

“Aye.”

“And you have done little writing or drawing, maybe none at all.”

“Brom taught me my letters in Teirm.”

“Mmm. Beyond your choice of tools, it seems obvious that you tend to

be reckless and disregard your own safety.”

“What makes you say that, Oromis-elda?” asked Eragon, using the most

respectful and formal honorific that he could think of.

“Not elda, ” corrected Oromis. “You may call me master in this tongue

and ebrithil in the ancient language, nothing else. You will extend the

same courtesy to Glaedr. We are your teachers; you are our students; and

you will act with proper respect and deference.” Oromis spoke gently,

but with the authority of one who expects absolute obedience.

“Yes, Master Oromis.”

“As will you, Saphira.”

Eragon could sense how hard it was for Saphira to unbend her pride

enough to say, Yes, Master.

Oromis nodded. “Now. Anyone with such a collection of scars has ei-

ther been hopelessly unfortunate, fights like a berserker, or deliberately

pursues danger. Do you fight like a berserker?”

“No.”

“Nor do you seem unfortunate; quite the opposite. That leaves only

one explanation. Unless you think differently?”

Eragon cast his mind over his experiences at home and on the road, in

an attempt to categorize his behavior. “I would say, rather, that once I

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dedicate myself to a certain project or path, I see it through, no matter

the cost. . especially if someone I love is in danger.” His gaze flicked to-

ward Saphira.

“And do you undertake challenging projects?”

“I like to be challenged.”

“So you feel the need to pit yourself against adversity in order to test

your abilities.”

“I enjoy overcoming challenges, but I’ve faced enough hardship to know

that it’s foolish to make things more difficult than they are. It’s all I can

do to survive as it is.”

“Yet you chose to follow the Ra’zac when it would have been easier to

remain in Palancar Valley. And you came here.”

“It was the right thing to do. . Master.”

For several minutes, no one spoke. Eragon tried to guess what the elf

was thinking, but could glean no information from his masklike visage.

Finally, Oromis stirred. “Were you, perchance, given a trinket of some

kind in Tarnag, Eragon? A piece of jewelry, armor, or even a coin?”

“Aye.” Eragon reached inside of his tunic and fished out the necklace

with the tiny silver hammer. “Gannel made this for me on Hrothgar’s or-

ders, to prevent anyone from scrying Saphira or me. They were afraid

that Galbatorix might have discovered what I look like. .. How did you

know?”

“Because,” said Oromis, “I could no longer sense you.”

“Someone tried to scry me by Sílthrim about a week ago. Was that

you?”

Oromis shook his head. “After I first scryed you with Arya, I had no

need to use such crude methods to find you. I could reach out and touch

your mind with mine, as I did when you were injured in Farthen Dûr.”

Lifting the amulet, he murmured several lines in the ancient language,

then released it. “It contains no other spells I can detect. Keep it with you

at all times; it is a valuable gift.” He pressed the tips of his long fingers to-

gether, his nails as round and bright as fish scales, and stared between the

arches they formed toward the white horizon. “Why are you here, Er-

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agon?”

“To complete my training.”

“And what do you think that process entails?”

Eragon shifted uncomfortably. “Learning more about magic and fight-

ing. Brom wasn’t able to finish teaching me everything that he knew.”

“Magic, swordsmanship, and other such skills are useless unless you

know how and when to apply them. This I will teach you. However, as

Galbatorix has demonstrated, power without moral direction is the most

dangerous force in the world. My main task, then, is to help you, Eragon

and Saphira, to understand what principles guide you, so that you do not

make the right choices for the wrong reasons. You must learn more

about yourself, who you are and what you are capable of doing. That is

why you are here.”

When do we begin? asked Saphira.

Oromis began to answer when he stiffened and dropped his flagon. His

face went crimson and his fingers tightened into hooked claws that

dragged at his robe like cockleburs. The change was frightening and in-

stantaneous. Before Eragon could do more than flinch, the elf had relaxed

again, although his entire body now bespoke weariness.

Concerned, Eragon dared to ask, “Are you well?”

A trace of amusement lifted the corner of Oromis’s mouth. “Less so

than I might wish. We elves fancy ourselves immortal, but not even we

can escape certain maladies of the flesh, which are beyond our knowl-

edge of magic to do more than delay. No, do not worry. . it isn’t conta-

gious, but neither can I rid myself of it.” He sighed. “I have spent decades

binding myself with hundreds of small, weak spells that, layered one

upon another, duplicate the effect of enchantments that are now beyond

my reach. I bound myself with them so that I might live long enough to

witness the birth of the last dragons and to foster the Riders’ resurrection

from the ruin of our mistakes.”

“How long until. .”

Oromis lifted a sharp eyebrow. “How long until I die? We have time,

but precious little for you or me, especially if the Varden decide to call

upon your help. As a result—to answer your question, Saphira—we will

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begin your instruction immediately, and we will train faster than any

Rider ever has or ever will, for I must condense decades of knowledge

into months and weeks.”

“You do know,” said Eragon, struggling against the embarrassment and

shame that made his cheeks burn, “about my. . my own infirmity. ” He

ground out the last word, hating the sound of it. “I am as crippled as you

are.”

Sympathy tempered Oromis’s gaze, though his voice was firm. “Eragon,

you are only a cripple if you consider yourself one. I understand how you

feel, but you must remain optimistic, for a negative outlook is more of a

handicap than any physical injury. I speak from personal experience. Pity-

ing yourself serves neither you nor Saphira. I and the other spellweavers

will study your malady to see if we might devise a way to alleviate it, but

in the meantime, your training will proceed as if nothing were amiss.”

Eragon’s gut clenched and he tasted bile as he considered the implica-

tions. Surely Oromis wouldn’t make me endure that torment again! “The

pain is unbearable,” he said frantically. “It would kill me. I—”

“No, Eragon. It will not kill you. That much I know about your curse.

However, we both have our duty; you to the Varden, and I to you. We

cannot shirk it for the sake of mere pain. Far too much is at risk, and we

can ill afford to fail.” All Eragon could do was shake his head as panic

threatened to overwhelm him. He tried to deny Oromis’s words, but

their truth was inescapable. “Eragon. You must accept this burden freely.

Have you no one or nothing that you are willing to sacrifice yourself for?”

His first thought was of Saphira, but he was not doing this for her. Nor

for Nasuada. Nor even for Arya. What drove him, then? When he had

pledged fealty to Nasuada, he had done so for the good of Roran and the

other people trapped within the Empire. But did they mean enough to

him to put himself through such anguish? Yes, he decided. Yes, they do,

because I am the only one who has a chance to help them, and because I

won’t be free of Galbatorix’s shadow until they are as well. And because

this is my only purpose in life. What else would I do? He shuddered as he

mouthed the ghastly phrase, “I accept on behalf of those I fight for: the

people of Alagaësia—of all races—who have suffered from Galbatorix’s

brutality. No matter the pain, I swear that I will study harder than any

student you’ve had before.”

Oromis nodded gravely. “I ask for nothing less.” He looked at Glaedr for

a moment, then said, “Stand and remove your tunic. Let me see what you

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are made of.”

Wait, said Saphira. Was Brom aware of your existence here, Master? Er-

agon paused, struck by the possibility.